Therapy Doll: "Mary Has A Snit-Fit"

Some days, a situation leaves you speechless. But this day, I actually WAS speechless! A recent bout of strep throat left me without a voice. But as fate would have it... this is one day that a voice would have been most helpful.

I answered the ad for a local shop specializing in vintage, recycled and art. Boy, sounds like my kind of place. And just down the road too! So, I popped in to absorb some inspiration, and perhaps drop a bit of cash.

There I met Mary.

My years of hairdressing immediately grasped a head of hair, bleached to the end of its life. Heavy "cat's eye' make-up accentuated her suspiciously narrowed eyes. But her physical appearance was nothing compared to the waves of animosity that flowed from her petite fame. She had recognized me as being a vendor from another local show. Ok... there is nothing wrong with that. As an artist, I maintain a monthly curcuit of 5 to 7 shows. But this pushy pansy started to accuse me of showing up to her show merely to steal her ideas.

My whispered voice did nothing to match her frantic screech. After a good 5 minutes of her diatribe I was able to cut in to my defense. I asked her if she remembered my work. While I doubt that she actually did, she claimed that she knew it well. I then asked her in my scratchy voice, how in the hell would someone that specialized in cashmere zombies with exposed brains compete with "romantic french country"? Unable to answer, she huffed off. The encounter leaving me with the makings of...

Title: "Mary Has A Snit Fit"

Contents: Cashmere sweater, wool sweater, "green" wool roving

Status: Adopted by a very brave, patient woman. I wish you luck.

Exactly... what does an artist look like?

I was standing in front of my local thrift store, basking in the warm glow of people admiring my work. I had brought in a few samples for the shop manager to see, so she would know what I did and what supplies I was looking for. Quickly a small crowd had gathered and my work was getting the "oooh and Ahh" treatment. We artists live for this moment. Then the comment came, unexpected, like sitting on a loud woopie cushion at a proper English tea.

"Wow! These are amazing! I had no idea you were so talented. You just don't LOOK like an artist!

Rapidly, I felt the glow leave me and be replaced by a prickle of irritation. I drew upon my 20+ years of customer service training to thank her for her kindness while hiding my annoyance.

As I packed away my work and left the store, I had to ask myself. What, exactly, does an artist really look like?

Is it like my art friend Valerie Bailey? A fiesty senior citizen, she wears her long white hair in a tidy braid. Her long flowing skirts are in a crazy quilt of satin and velvet, topped by a dark hat.

Is it like my art friend Pam Pitts? By far one of the best lampwork artists I have ever met, Pam's tiny frame is accented in baseball caps, blue jeans and hippie-chic tye-dye t-shirts. This suits her fave phrase of "Far out!"

Is it my Art Friend Debi Beard? Pretty and petite, she looks wonderful in soft and romantic vintage clothes. A class act.

Or, is it my favorite Rottengirl Keri Stanton? Her exotic features accentuated in a Gothic "Alice in Wonderland' dress.

My point is: exactly what the hell is an artist supposed to LOOK like?

I made a decision a while back that I no longer owed anyone a specific "look" to suit their views of what I should be. At fourty-freakin'-four I have earned that right. Granted, I never show up at a show in a t-shirt and sloppy shorts (I have seen it folks!) but neither do I feel I need to try to totter across a grassy yard, setting up a 10 by 10 canopy while waring 4 inch heels. My plus-size frame deserves comfort these days. As a former hairstylist, I have smelled enough chemicals to know that there is glory in salt-and-pepper hair and I wear my white streaks proudly. I enjoy wearing something offbeat to give the element of surprise, like showing up at a 4th of July show with an electric blue wig. But, I am just as home in a simple dress with my hair pulled back into a ponytail.

So, I have to ask. Does the dress make the artist? Or does the artist wear the dress?

Leucadia Artwalk!

It's that time of year again!

Time to get a bit sandy and revel in the surf. Then, come absorb the fun and funky vibe of the Leucadia artwalk!

I love doing this show. This year, ALL participants were juried, so you can be assured that everyone is a wonderful, talented artist in their own right. No mass produced imported junk here. Oh no. just the best that San Diego has to offer.


This year, I am again in the parking lot of Le Papagayo. Leucadia Artwalk will be held on August 29, from 10am to 5pm. Come say hello and check out my latest creations!

All That We May Leave Behind

My necklace "Autumn's Song" will be among that I leave behind

The lady at the estate sale gave me a brave smile. "Everything is for sale, even inside the house. My parents have both passed and we need to clear things out." I gave a quiet condolence and asked her how she was doing. Her eyes immediately got misty. "I am doing well. In fact, I haven't cried for weeks. But when I came over this morning, I came across funny little objects that remind me of my mom and I start to cry all over again."

As I sorted through the boxes and rooms, a few things started to come out. The daughter must have been a majorette 'way-back-when', as boxes of trophies and competition programs were found. And judging by the boxes of sequins, trims and beads, most of her costumes must have been lovingly sewn by hand.

Back home I started sorting through my new treasures. I found some of the most beautifully beaded vintage trim that I have ever seen. A few glass beads were found carefully tucked away in a medicine bottle from 1985. Some tiny plastic babies gave me a smile. A teddy bear trivet was too saccharine for my taste so I will pass it off to another. A sealed bag of sequins shows that we shop at the some Los Angeles trim store.

And its here that I began to lose myself in thought.

When we die, we know we leave our earthly possessions... no matter how hard we may cling to them. Heirlooms may trigger wars between brother and sister. Appliances and cars are sold off. Houses vacated and placed on the market... the resulting profits carefully divided between family. But in almost every case, it seems that these lovely vintage treasures of beads, findings and supplies are simply boxed up and cheaply sold, if not given away. They seldom have a sentimental value, and frequently, not much of a monetary value as well.

I am now starting to sort my new pretties for use in my studio. I pour myself a cool drink to ward off the hot summer day and somewhere in a different realm, I am introduced to another artist. It's almost like she is there beside me. I can hear her tell me about the cute outfit she made her daughter using the gold sequins. The fantastic sale she found on embroidered patches... at a quarter each, she couldn't resist buying a dozen. I can hear a soft laugh as she tells me as she tells me about a partially made set of earrings that she tucked away in disgusts as she couldn't get the beading to lay flat. Those plastic babies were from a baby shower and she couldn't bear to part with any extra, since they were so cute.

It's a language that all artists understand... but those of us who work in vintage and antique media are the most fluent. We love and appreciate these treasures. You can't find these in aisle 3B at Michaels after all.

You can't help but wonder about your own mortality at these times. While my finished designs may be sought by a future grandchild, I can't help wonder about the supplies that I will leave. The scores of antique buttons. The tiny faience beads that adorned an ancient mummy and now sit behind a glass frame. My hand-made molds for my ceramic pendants. All the things that make my art and soul my own.

I wonder if my sons will host an estate sale. Will a future artist find my supplies as compelling as I do? And will we have a mystic conversation about the things that I may leave behind?

New Show!

I am pleased to announce a new show for Lume di Luna Designs! Starting next month, every 2nd Sunday we can be found at the Leucadia Farmer's and Artisan's Market, at Paul Ecke Elementary School, from 10am until 2pm. This is a wonderful venue! We are surrounded by talented artisans, fresh organic produce and yummy international foods. Mark your calendars!

Eat dessert first.

Another 2 sculptures find a new home!

When we are at the age when it is time to chose our career paths, the advice is always the same: Do something that you love.

Such a no-brainer, isn't it?

But some things in life are never that simple. I was raised in an environment where work automatically meant some kind of sacrifice. To be truly employed, you must have an undercurrent of dislike and toil. To paraphrase my hubby's beloved Pink Floyd... "You can't have any pudding until you eat your meat."

To me; art has always been dessert of the best kind. Something decadent, sweet and sticky. But all good girls know that you must eat those yucky green veggies before you get your dessert.

So, for years, art was the last thing on my extensive "to do" list. Dishes must be washed, floors swept, family obligations met... to clean my plate as it were... so I could get to that dessert of creativity. And as any mom of 3 boys will tell you, a mom's plate is never clean.

But slowly, I started sneaking in small tastes. How could something so wonderful as artistic expression be wrong? With my husband's encouragment I began to branch out. The seeds took root and began to grow. Before I knew it, my art was not a forbidden treat. Instead, it became water to my spirit. Something that if I denied it to my parched soul, I would wither.

Now, in the 44th year of my life, I understand! If we make that choice to follow our hearts instead of our sacrifices, we will grow. I never imagined the feeling of deep satisfaction as my humble sculptures become treasured possessions, or my delight when someone tells me of the compliments they get when wearing my pendants.

Life is short. Eat dessert first.

Good Guys Wear Black

Here, Tina cradles my Marilyn Manson doll

I have to confess, I was stunned speechless (a rare thing for me) when I spoke to my longtime acquaintance. "Why would you want to talk to Goths?" she asked me. "All that black! We are a visual society and they should know how evil they look!" Another person chimed in "You know, they all worship the devil!"


I was bitterly disappointed in them. They were buying into a terrible stereotype and an ignorant one at that. You see, they didn't know about one of San Diego's most powerful and positive forces: The Gothic Volunteer Alliance. Fortunately I do.

I saw my first Goth when I moved to San Diego nearly 17 years ago. My husband pointed out a couple of black clad girls and commented that he didn't know it was Halloween yet. But I was entranced. For one: it looked like fun. I loved their expressive dresses! A part of me felt wistful. How I wished to be 17 again, dressed in their black Victorian lace.


As I have matured and found my artistic muse, I discovered that had I been born in another time, and raised in a more tolerant community, I would have been Goth. So much of my work hearkens to my dark humor. I have been known to spend hours in old cemeteries, straightening flowers and touching the stones. My music of choice ( HIM, AFI, Marilyn Manson) doesn't sit well with most of my contemporaries, who brand it evil. So, I have cloaked my Gothic soul and share it with few.

A couple of years ago, I was cruising the Internet and came across the most incredible group called the Gothic Volunteer Alliance. Troubled by recent violence, both locally and abroad, they had banded together to raise awareness and tolerance. The held fundraisers for charity. They cleaned local beaches. They were amazingly civic-minded and were determined to raise a positive profile to the community.

Yeah.... right. Evil devil-worshippers indeed. Somehow the words of the 2 well-dressed society ladies seemed far more poisonous to me. In a world where we deem everyone of equal worth, why does our choice of something as trivial as dress or music seem to threaten some people?

Sometimes, the good guys wear black.

http://gothicvolunteeralliance.org/about.php